The Christmas season is now in full swing. Fuck, who are we kidding, it’s been in some sort of swing since practically Labor Day, as every year we chip away even more at the rest of our months with the disgusting commercialism of this one.

Trees are up, malls are packed and that creepy-ass “Elf on the Shelf” is slinking around your house while you’re sleeping, stirring shit up and watching your children. I could invent a $7 pocket-sized instrument that could convert jizm (there’s a word you don’t hear enough anymore) into a $20-bill and 5-gallons of gasoline for your car and it would bomb like a Nicolas Cage movie.

But some simple-minded tool in Toledo (shout out!) or housewife in Des Moines pukes out the idea of this thing and now they’re a goddamned bazillionaire and can quit spending every living weekend in gymnasium craft fairs.

I actually have no idea as to the origin of this mobile spy, but my bitterness leads me to believe it falls somewhere in the paragraph above.

With all of that being said (cliché alert), I may not believe in Jesus Christ or Santa Claus…but you can bet your ample bosom that, like Kaiser Soze, I believe in the evil doings of this miniature mischief maker and will have one NOWHERE near my home.

He apparently waits for you to sleep, hoists himself off of the shelf you have resigned him to and runs free around your home, doing as his little ass pleases. He was sold to you on the pretense of monitoring your children and reporting their doings, inappropriate or otherwise, back to the fat guy up North. You tell this to your children (hello future therapy), place him on a shelf and turn in for some sweet dreams.

Upon waking, this little fucker has strewn toilet paper throughout the bathroom and is now on the counter amongst a bunch of Pringles crumbs and empty beer cans. Just what the hell is going on and who’s really minding the children? I’d also question the qualifications of somebody that Santa reportedly has sent to see to their behavior, who seemingly cannot keep himself out of nightly shenanigans.

Has he found your stash of weed and porn? You bet. Has he rifled through your wife’s “toy drawer”, dirty panties or even crawled under the covers for a close-up look of his own? I wouldn’t put it past the little deviate.

Better hide your shit well, folks. How’d you like to wake up to a pissed off spouse because this pointy-eared little asshole decided to leave your fake, tail-chasing, profile up on the laptop overnight? The morning alarm is beat to the punch by the message indicator on your husband’s cell phone, which has mysteriously been forwarded all of those raunchy “sexts” you’ve been exchanging with the 24-year old swinging dick in accounting at the office.


I tell you, this prick is not to be trusted. If you have one, get rid of him now…but be careful. This isn’t something you can just toss out in the trash and hope to simply go away. Oh no, captain! Like the tiki doll from “The Brady Bunch” or that awful fucking clown in “Poltergeist”, things are much more complicated.

Shit, this thing would straight corn-hole Cindy’s Kitty Carryall doll, if the Brady’s were dumb enough to own one, and ghosts and a creepy clown (redundant) would’ve been the least of the Freeling family’s worries.

What have we now come to in this country to keep our kids in line for the holiday? For years we had to hear that Santa “sees us when we’re sleeping” and “knows when we’re awake”, as if that’s not enough to make closing an 8-year olds eyes at night one of the scariest propositions in their young lives, but now we’ve got to take it a step further.

That fat cocksucker has sent down an army of secret agents, feigning your friendship, only to report back to him the slightest of your misdeeds, all while running roughshod around your home at night. If this doesn’t work, are you going to tie a goddamned panther to your child’s doorknob, for the love of all that Vin Diesel holds holy?

Now that you’ve went down that rabbit hole, best of luck in climbing back out people. You can toss him in the trash when your kids get older and think that it’s the end of old E.O.T.S., but think again. Before you know it, he’ll be discarding the banana peel he’s under, eating his way out of the trash bag and jumping right off of the garbage truck before it’s anywhere near the dump.

He knows your secrets. Sure, he knows that little Betty snuck out of bed to peek in her stocking and that Teddy takes dollar bills from Mommy’s purse at night. But he also knows that Daddy puts a thumb in his own ass and jerks off to the babysitter’s Facebook albums titled “Summer”, “Swimming!” or “Lake Trip” and that Mom has a 14-inch, black vibrator hidden in the closet because the old man comes up about nine inches short of doing the trick, if you know what I mean.

You bought into the “cute” idea of this gimmick and jumped in hook, line and proverbial sinker. You now have some important decisions to make and I truly wish you the best of luck. Don’t be surprised if you come home to your shit in the driveway and him in your recliner, with the wife knelt on the floor in front of his Lilliputian ass – anything is possible. This thing is relatively new and I’m not certain that proper disposal has been established just yet…or is even possible.

“Elf on the Shelf” – meet gun in the cabinet…KMFP-out!

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